Monte Walsh

by Jack Schaefer

  He nudged the roan forward and was moving again down the trail. Again the roan stopped, pulled to a sudden halt. Down and to the right, miles away from the blunt-pointed beginning of the wedge-shaped scar, along the outer base of the long ridge below him, clear and distinct in distance through the clean air, he saw two men mounted, leading two horses, moving southward at a steady trot. He saw them stop and one swing down and bend low to the ground and rise and swing up and both ride on and where the one had bent a wisp of smoke rose and increased as wind caught it.

  He stared down across the miles and the muscles around his lean-lipped mouth tightened. Out of old habit, instinctive, his right hand moved and his worn gun was in the hand and he spun the cylinder, looking down to check it. He slipped the gun back into its holster. He slapped spurs to the roan and turned off the trail, angling southward and down the rugged slopes in the direction of two men mounted, leading two horses, moving away at a steady trot.

  * * *

  The first fire raced on, crackling through the low growth, sending sparks dancing upward in the roiling smoke that swung and eddied in the wind, obscuring the sun in the immediate area, making a hazy dimness over all, and the men of the Slash Y, silent mostly, grim-faced, fought for the good grasses that meant strong flesh to the cattle roaming the range that in turn meant money, a return on investment, to other men two thousand miles away.

  Out in front Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins pulled the drag, about thirty feet apart, straddling between them the lead line of fire. Monte on the inside, in past the crackling flames, blood-smeared, smoke-grimed, all but lost in the back-swirls of smoke, erect in saddle with bandanna up over mouth and nose, voice coming muffled through it in constant refrain, aimed at and steadying to the wincing, jumping, side­swinging, horse under him: "Hot, boy, ain't it, hot on the feet. But I'm promising you a year's rest to grow out those hoofs again." Chet on the outside, blood- and smoke-smeared the same, pushing steadily through the smoke clouds rolling at him, solid in saddle, holding down his frightened horse, intent on the tricky job of keeping his rope taut against the jerks from Monte's and the drag pulling right, smothering, over the fire line.

  Back about seventy-five yards the wagon moved at a matching pace along the edge of the burned-out area, Cal Brennan on the seat with one foot braced and the other on the brake, hands clamped on reins as the draft team snorted and plunged, trying to swing away, and the extra horses, tied in a string to the tailgate, squealed and kicked and, reluctant, followed.

  In between Hat Henderson and Dally Johnson and Sunfish Perkins worked on foot with several thicknesses of wet bags in their hands, slapping slapping slapping down on the flickers of flame and the glowing sparks left by the drag, running to vault into the moving wagon and dip the bags in the barrels and pull them out dripping and leap to the ground and back to the slapping slapping slapping. And with them, moving steadily along, Dobe Chavez, shovel in hand, tossed smoldering cow chips back from the line and threw dirt over them.

  And several miles away Sugar Wyman and Jumping Joe Joslin, slapping too with bags, stomping with worn blackened boots, kicking cow chips in, worked steadily along the flank of the great wedge-shaped scar where fire showed only in patches, creeping slowly against the wind.

  * * *

  High above the ground wind and the activity moving through it, light gray smoke drifted, floating lazily ever up­ward, forming fantastic patterns against the deep blue of upper sky, and its message spread out across the big land.

  Twenty-four miles to the north three Triple Seven hands, jogging along in saddles, topped a rise and stopped and looked southward into distance and one of them whirled his horse and rode back fast in the direction of the Triple Seven buildings and the other two struck spurs to their horses and rode at a long swinging lope toward the distant signal in the sky.

  Eighteen miles to the east where the little town of Harmony drowsed in midmorning sun Sheriff MacKnight rose from his rolltop desk in his little cubicle in the combination hotel and office building known as the Harmony House and stepped out into the hall and on out on the porch to stretch cramped muscles and in the act of stretching stopped, staring westward, and turned to shout in through the door­way behind him and turned again, striding fast, to leave the porch and head along the main street, hammering on doors and shouting again.

  Twenty-two miles to the south Sonny Jacobs, wrench in hand atop a small windmill tower, stared north and west and dropped the wrench and climbed down fast and soon men scurried about the buildings of the Diamond Six and another big flatbed wagon carrying barrels and bags and shovels and men careened out onto the open grassland, angling toward the far smoke of the second fire, and Sonny and another man followed in saddles, leading extra horses.

  Here and there along a huge arc swinging to the east around the vast stretch of rolling plain, where stood an occasional shack or jacal or adobe house, other men saw and stared into distance and a few of them shrugged shoulders and spat in the general direction of one or another of the big cow outfits but most of them tightened belts and hurried to bring in scrawny horses or mules or burros and slap what they had for saddles on them.

  And off to the west Sugar Wyman and Jumping Joe Joslin, working now around the blunted point of the first wedge­shaped scar, looked up to see Jose Gonzales on a scraggly pinto and his twelve-year-old oldest boy on a burro coming toward them, carrying shovels.

  * * *

  Farther west and south, well down past the blunted point of the second wedge-shaped scar that increased eastward, widening under the whip of the wind, a rough-built sturdy roan, sweat-streaked, moved along the base of the long ridge and Powder Kent leaned forward and down in the saddle, checking the prints of four horses that had passed there at a steady trot. The roan stopped and he straightened, scanning the long stretch of land ahead. He nudged the roan forward again. The prints swerved, turning to lead up the slope of the ridge, toe marks deep as if the horses had hurried, and he turned with them. Near the top of the ridge he dismounted and left the roan ground-reined and moved on up, bending low, and lay flat, peering over. Nothing moved anywhere in view in the broken land dropping down and away to rise again into the steeper slopes of the mountains. He returned and took the reins and led the horse, scrambling fast, up and over and down a short distance. He mounted and headed on into the broken land, slowly, cautiously, following the prints.

  * * *

  A little before noon and far out on the rolling plain the men of the big land fought for the good grasses. Southward where the second fire raced forward the crew of the Diamond Six, gathering recruits from the lower country, were leaping into action along its front. Three miles to the north, about midway now of the long angled front of the first fire, Monte Walsh on his third horse and Chet Rollins on his second pulled a fresh drag. They moved faster now and behind them more men slapped with bags and swung with shovels. Not far away Skimpy Eagens, who had somehow wrangled a pair of half-broken horses out of the big corral and into harness, bounced forward on the seat of the old Slash Y chuck wagon, game leg braced against the dashboard, bringing a supply of jerked beef and a bushel basket of biscuits and a huge pot of coffee and the makings for plenty more.

  Time passed, fast in movement and action, slow and heavy to the men in the smoke haze, and throats smarted from coughing and muscles ached from the constant slapping slapping slapping. Dobe Chavez and Hat Henderson led now with another drag and two other drags were working down along the jagged narrowing front of the two fires that had spread inward toward each other and merged into the one.

  Where Skimpy Eagens had set up a quick camp Monte Walsh, caught ten minutes before in a swirling backlash of flame from a clump of burning brush, lay limp with shoulders and head against a saddle blanket and a wheel of the chuck wagon, hat lost somewhere, face curiously pale under its tan and coating of grime, eyebrows gone and hair singed, breath coming in short quick gasps as the air rasped his scorched lungs. Chet Rollins squatted beside him, holding a cup of coffe
e to his lips.

  "You goddamn fool," muttered Chet. "You ain't fit to be let run loose. Whyn't you pull away? Whyn't you let me take it sometimes?"

  Monte raised a limp hand and pushed the cup aside and the hand moved on to slap Chet weakly on the thigh. "Got to . . . keep you ... looking pretty," he gasped. "Seeing . . . as you ain't ... got much .., to start with." He hitched himself up higher against the blanket and the wheel. "Ain't there ... any whisky ... around?"

  Thirty feet away Cal Brennan sat on the ground, boots off and beside him, rubbing his bent old toes. The big bulk of Sheriff MacKnight hunkered down facing him.

  "Plenty of help here now," said Sheriff MacKnight. "If the wind don't get to playing games, the whole thing's about licked." He plucked a grass stem and tucked it in one corner of his mouth and chewed slowly on it. "I'm wondering, Cal. You got any ideas?"

  Cal Brennan rubbed a hand down one cheek and over his chin. "One," he said. "An' I'm kickin' myself about it. Should of thought. An' I'm only sayin' maybe. There's nobody livin' over that way but Gonzales an' he ain't tricky nor careless. But a couple hard cases came in yesterday. Wanted to be runnin' broomtails. I said no an' they didn't like it. They didn't like it at all. They rode out that way."

  Sheriff MacKnight straightened up. "Reckon I'll be looking around some," he said. "Your boys must be about bushed." A few moments later he and two other men drifted quietly away, westward across the charred land, the hoofs of their horses sending up spurts of soft fine ash.

  * * *

  On westward, west and south, up and over the long ridge, well into the broken land beyond, Powder Kent on a rough­built sturdy roan pushed along, following the prints of four horses. He moved slowly, studying the ground carefully ahead of him.

  The roan raised its head higher as if to whinny and Powder pulled reins and leaned down fast to clamp a hand over its nose. He waited a moment, listening. Cautiously he released the nose and nudged the roan forward. The prints led along a small dry stream bed and between two high sharply eroded shoulders of hardened clay. He stopped again and dismounted and tied his bandanna around the roan's nose and left it ground-reined and moved ahead on foot. The prints led on, between the high shoulders, and he could see them swerving to the right, climbing up the slow slope out of the stream bed, up and up and topping on out of sight.

  He stepped back to the roan and mounted and moved forward, slowly, cautiously. He was turning to the right to follow the prints up the slope when small barely perceptible sounds or the prickling of the hair on the back of his neck gave warning and he knew in the single poised instant that he had made a mistake and he reared the roan pivoting on hind legs back around to the left and saw the two men stepping out from behind a big rock forty feet away and their guns rising.

  He heard the double blast of their guns and the roan shuddered under him leaping and he felt a sudden tearing shock along his left side and he rocked back in the saddle under the impact and fell toward the ground and as he fell, instinctive, out of old habit, his right hand moved and his gun was in the hand. He hit hard and rolled over with the momentum of the fall, hitching around toward the two men, and their guns were blasting again and bullets thudded into the ground around him and one full into him, smashing a hipbone, and all of his fast-ebbing vitality was concentrated on the one terrible effort of getting his right arm forward and the gun up, elbow braced on the ground, and the worn old gun roared and bucked in his hand.

  Time passed and eastward, out of the broken land, up and over the long ridge, along its outer base, Sheriff MacKnight and two other men moved at a slow lope, following the prints of five horses. "Two of them ain't carrying anybody," muttered Sheriff MacKnight. "But who in hell's the other one?" The prints swung away, leading up the ridge slope, and Sheriff MacKnight and the two other men turned, following them.

  And on eastward, mile after mile, over the charred land, on where the good grasses rippled in the lessened wind to far horizon, the smoke haze was lifting and the last drag moved over the last short stretch of fire and was left where it lay and a few men, with no urgency, slapped wearily at the last remaining flickers. Already other men, tired and soot-stained, smoke-grimed, were drifting off into the distances out of which they had come.

  Cal Brennan, boots in hand, stood by the seat of the big flatbed wagon. Hat Henderson, big and smoke-blackened, looked down at him from the back of a tired horse.

  "Quite a gatherin'," said Cal. "Surprised me, some that showed. We got more'n a few good neighbors. I expect we'll be plenty busy for a while huntin' more range an' shiftin' stock. But when we get straightened out, maybe we ought to be throwin' some kind of a party."

  "Yeah," said Hat. A grin broke the darkened mask of his face. "Maybe a barbecue'd be kind of appropriate. Well, anyways, a couple of the Diamond boys'll be staying out a while to watch it down their way. Me an' Dally'll stick around here till dark just in case. You an' the rest go on in."

  Twenty feet away the smeared crusted barely recognizable figure that was Monte Walsh stood by a patient bridled horse, breath wheezing some in his throat, and he winced slightly as he breathed. He bent down to take hold of his stained charred saddle and heaved, staggering a bit, to get it up and into place.

  "Hey, quit that," said Chet Rollins, moving in. "Get over there in the wagon."

  "The hell ... with you," gasped Monte, reaching under for the cinch. "I ain't ... dead yet. When I... can't ride ... I will be."

  * * *

  In the cool clean dark of night over the big land the door of the empty Slash Y bunkhouse stood open. Across trodden dust the light from two lamps shone through the front window and the open doorway of the old adobe ranch house. Close by the veranda two horses drooped in tired dejection, dim figures on the edge of the patch of light through the doorway. Inside, in the big front room, the men of the Slash Y, in clothes hurriedly pulled on, stood or sat about, silent, grim­faced. On the floor a blanket covered a still stiffened figure. Beside it, worn and weary and dust-stained, stood Sheriff MacKnight.

  "Yes," he said. "We unraveled it all right from the tracks. He spotted them somehow and he took out after them. All by his lonesome. Likely he knew you all were plenty busy. Back down in those badlands below Black Horse Spring they jumped him and knocked him out of the saddle. He didn't move much from where he fell. But he had his gun out. Three shells fired. We found one man right there, done for, drilled neat through the chest and the shoulder. Found the other one wobbling on his horse about three miles away. He couldn't do much traveling. Had lost too much blood. A bullet hole in one leg, up high where he had trouble stopping it."

  Sheriff MacKnight took off his hat and rubbed a hand across his forehead where the band had made a red mark. "We patched that one up," he said, "and rounded up the rest of their horses. Were heading here, bringing everything. Then I got to thinking how you boys might get the itch to use a rope on the one that's living. Seeing as I can't let that happen much as I might feel inclined to, I sent the others on into town and come in here myself. Bringing him. I figured you might want that."

  "Yes," said Cal Brennan softly. "We do."

  Sheriff MacKnight sighed and raised the hand holding his hat and put the hat on, pulling it down over his forehead. "You want me to leave him here?"

  "Yes," said Cal Brennan. "I don't know as he's ever really had any folks, except maybe the rest of us right here. He used to be all Texas. But he ain't talked that way for a long time now. I reckon if he had the sayin' of it, he'd want to stay."

  * * *

  Days passed, slipping into weeks, and the men of the Slash Y spent long hours in the saddle, riding out into the mountains, finding upland valley pockets of good grass and moving cattle in small bunches to them to be left until late November when the snows of winter would come. Monte Walsh sat in the mouse-chewed remnants of armchair on the veranda of the old adobe house, soaking in sun, and watched them go and slowly at first then rapidly the lean rawhide vitality crept back through him, sealing off portions
of his lungs with scar tissue, sending down his legs the tingle for the feel of a stout horse under him, and one morning he walked down to the corrals with the others and saddled a deep-chested leggy dun and rode out part way with them and the next day and thereafter rode the full way and all that remained from the scorching was now and again a small spell of coughing and once in a long while a bad spell sending a sudden sharp pain through his chest that hurt more than anyone but himself would ever know.

  Over in the little town of Harmony, when the circuit judge came along, a quick trial was held and a lawyer, assigned unwilling to the defense, argued that no one could prove whose bullet did what and that his client had simply been led astray by a companion and the judge agreed that intent and participation were all that were certain and sentenced a loose­limbed slack-jawed man who limped some to fifteen years in the territorial penitentiary.

  'Then the long-delayed rains came, a few sudden swift thunderstorms, and out where the wind had been playing with fine loose ash over charred ground sheets of water swept, soaking the ash into the earth, erasing much of the great jagged scar defacing the land. Moisture seeped down where the roots of the good southwestern grasses waited and a faint flush of new green showed, not much this late in the year, but strong with the promise of the next spring.

  And there where the Slash Y buildings seemed to grow out of the ground, a part of the big land, a small rectangular piece of it, incredibly small in the vastness, was enclosed with a sturdy picket fence made and bolted to deep-set posts by Sunfish Perkins and Sugar Wyman. Within the fence a rectangular mound of earth settled slowly, inevitably, under the lash of rain and the warm blessing of sun and the cool clean dark of night. At one end of the mound, set solid into the land, stood a small cross of weathered oak, the legend on it carved by Dobe Chavez from pencil markings laid out by Hat Henderson.